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Vertti x Ante x Azem x Tito (Slash Fic)
Chapter I I never knew what it felt like to fight a war with one's own body. To deflect non-existing, imaginary bullets. To march through the smoke, fumes and fire of one's own imagination. To commit genocide of the third degree. To be a madman. A prophet. A general of dreams. A killer. A maniac. A dealer of death. A hireling of chaos. To get engulfed into the broken, wast battlefield of one's own subconsciousness. To be taken, torn, destroyed, conquered and then re-built all over again. So much akin to the colossal, grey, armored concrete buildings in decay, in the state of crumbling and abandonment, lining on the foggy, smoggy streets of shattered, broken hopes as we slowly, broodingly drove past in our black limo with an escort of over fifty policemen on roaring, robust motorcycles, of mercenaries in threatening, shining chrome venichles and a battalion of armed soldiers in parading tanks. so much akin to the four riders of the apocalypse in the search of condemned souls to gather. Me, Ante Pavelić, Azem Galica and Josip Broz, quietly observing our creation from the darkened, steeled car window as the chauffeur was driving down the demolished, bombarded street, our work of art, our masterpiece, or grand opus for the masses, our own, personal version of the Sistine Chapel which was colored, painted and sculpted in blood, tears, ashes, dust and broken glass instead of a canvas of colors, of shades, of lines, of palettes, knowing fully well that none of them were Michelangelos, Raphaels, Donatellos, Titians, Da Vincis, Botticellis, that none of them were celebrated, inspired Renaissance geniuses who's ideas give birth to the spark of beauty, wonder and eternity, instead they were my megalomaniac, scheming, fratricidal, traitorous, double-crossing, lying, shady, twisted War-Lords and I, Vertti Sinisalo, loved them just for that. ''-"What is done is done. There's no turning back now. The U.N. wont intervene. We all know that. We all understand that. They were the ones who orchestrated this after all. We done what we were told. We were following orders from above. And we done a damn good job following them at that! Just a little reminder for you. Not to mope around when the press ambushes us in front of the Parliament doors like a pack of hungry hounds. When the cameras roll, the masks come on, my sweet. And we act. We act that we're heartbroken. You understand that, don't you?"-'' Ante's questioned me harshly, roughly and with a hint of cold, frozen indifference hanging at the back of his voice like a unsheathed, sharpened knife prepared to cut me along with the curviness of his thick, black eyebrows shading a pair of unmoved, darkened eyes as he rubbed his warm, bejeweled hand up and down the inside of my thigh almost as if this was his method of persuasion, of blackmail, of rewarding, of encouragement or maybe, just maybe, his way of threatening me, knowing fully well that I could lie only when it comes to the actual quality of my manga to acquaintances accumulated on my crowded Skype account, but to the press? The media? The news reporters? The journalists? The interviewers? The enraged, hungry mobs? The elected party peers seated in the parliament chairs? They were asking way too much of me. I never killed a man. I never even contemplated killing a man outside of watching blurry, fake beheading videos after midnight supposedly posted by Al-Kaida, the Isis, the Talibans and by angry, bloodthirsty Indian housewives who enjoyed in removing the genitalia of their cheating, rapist husbands. But these guys were something. Yesterday, I was just a simple, Scandinavian teen furiously masturbating to Scat-porn, inside of my locked room and now? Now? I was casually, nonchalantly sitting in the back of Mercedes-Benz Limousine with four people with more guns, rifles, ammunition and gas-bombs in the back of their compartment truck then half of Western Europe put together. Of course I was a tad bit confused! This was positively abnormal! ''-"You wont have to try too hard, my Finnish cupcake. The civilians fall for any trick. For every trick! They always have and they always will. The under-education and foolishness of the common flock is essential to the plan. To the agreement. They still believe you're a foreign emissary sent by Marti Ahtisaari and the European Union to debate the current situation in Krajina. They've always believed that. They always will believe that. Because that's what we want them to believe. They're nothing but an ignorant pile of dazed, drugged shit on two legs."-'' Josip added carefreely, happily and joyfully with a radiant, earnest smile on his tanned, sunkissed face as he carefully sipped his long, tall glass of pink, bubbly champagne given to him as a gift during an official, diplomatic visitation to Beirut taken from the generational, royal wine-cellars of some blasted, bloody Arabian sheikh who's name Vertti couldn't neither cared to remember, jokingly deciding to call everyone who lives on the Eastern side of the Iron Curtain a "nigga", being glad that he had the absolute, total approval of Ante who, according to his own untruthful self-proclamation happened to live on the Western side of it and the offended, cold disapproval of Azem who lived on the Eastern one and who ordered the ethical cleansing of a village full of Kosovar civilians the day Vertti declared what he declared. It was shocking at first but then it got old real quick.